Читать книгу Sons of Angels - Rachel Green - Страница 8

Chapter 1

Felicia Turling felt as if her head was about to explode. She’d never wanted to hit another woman so much in her life. Not that she ever would. A slap would cause more trouble than the temporary satisfaction was worth. She let the woman babble on instead, pretending to listen while planning her outfit for the club tonight. She nodded, as if in response. Emily Baker was a promising young artist but there had been no indication of her temperament in her CV.

“...amongst the bananas. Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course.” Felicia smiled and took the woman’s arm in a gentle but firm grip. “Those bananas are actually an installation by the renowned artist Sarah Whitelaw. Have you come across her work?”

Emily shook her head. “It’s a bit retrogarde in my opinion. Rotting fruit has been done to death.”

Felicia raised an eyebrow. Retrogarde was a new term to her, one she guessed meant the opposite of avant-garde but she took it in her stride. “It’s less to do with the rotting of the fruit than the evolution of the fruit-fly. It will be gone before your show goes up anyway.”

“Oh.” Emily cast her gaze around the basement gallery. “What about that door? Can I cover that?”

“I’m afraid not,” Felicia steered the young woman toward the office. “That leads to the bookshop upstairs. Mr. Waterman and I share a small amount of passing trade. Why don’t we have a cup of coffee while you detail your installation for me on the gallery plans?”

She didn’t regret her small lie for a moment, but it would teach her not to leave her shopping in the gallery.

“It’s great you’re going to let me paint the gallery black.” Emily looked up at the steel pipes criss-crossing the ceiling. “No one’s ever let me do that before.”

“Well, that’s not exactly what I said.” A phone began to ring in the office and she paused. “Would you mind if I got that? I’m waiting for a call from an investor.”

“No. Sure.” Emily diverted her attention to a series of etchings.

Felicia answered the phone and was overtaken with gallery business for the next hour and a half. Working without a break made for one hell of a long day.

* * * *

She was relieved when Meinwen joined her for lunch. On the wrong side of thirty, Meinwen was still single and made an invaluable friend. Rumors of an affair with the parish priest had been rife when she first moved to Laverstone, not least because of her profession as the owner of the only pagan shop in the village. As members of a village minority of artists, writers and other free-thinkers, Felicia and Meinwen had become firm friends.

“I saw Emily Baker in here earlier.” Meinwen smiled and accepted the mug of herbal tea. “She comes into the shop regularly. Rather you than me, I must say.” Her soft Welsh accent was musical after Emily’s harsh jabbering.

Felicia rolled her eyes. “I offered her a show on the basis of slides sent by post. I should have met her to discuss it first. Did you know she wants to paint the whole gallery black?”

Meinwen laughed. “No, but it doesn’t surprise me. I didn’t know you’d offered her a show, either. That explains why she bought my entire stock of black candles.”

“Oh no. I’m not having any religious mumbo-jumbo in the gallery.” She looked askance. “No offence.”

“None taken.” Meinwen grinned, pulling her feet up to sit cross-legged on the two-seater sofa. “I loathe the mumbo-jumbo too. Most of it is just pseudo-Christian guff, performed by people who wouldn’t recognize a goddess if she showed them Paradise.”

Felicia opened her sandwich and picked out the cucumber. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been agnostic since school.”

“Fair enough,” Meinwen spread hummus onto a piece of pita bread.

“‘Morning ladies.” Harold Waterman, who owned the bookshop upstairs, appeared with his own mug of tea, not trusting the “muck in a cup” Meinwen enjoyed. In his mid-thirties, he cut a roguish figure in an Italian tailored business suit and open-necked shirt. A lock of platinum-blond hair swept over his brow, a reflection of his easy smile. He reached over and took the discarded cucumber.

Felicia bit into the sandwich. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I’m up to date on the rent, aren’t I?”

“Of course. Nothing like that. I just fancied a bit of company.

“Your business associate not around, then?”

“Jasfoup’s busy with some of his freelance work.”

“Fair enough.” Felicia picked up her coffee. “Who’s looking after your shop?”

“Devious.” Harold grimaced. “Er... One of Jasfoup’s friends.”

“What an odd name.” Felicia raised her eyebrows. “Not terribly complimentary.”

Harold shrugged. “It is where he comes from.”

Felicia repressed a shudder at the thought of where that might be. “Do you want half my sandwich? I’m on a diet.”

“If you’re sure.” Harold smiled and held out his hand. “I wouldn’t want to see you go hungry.”

“I’m not.” Felicia passed it to him. “Think of it as saving me from myself.”

Harold bit into it and dropped a shred of lettuce onto his leather trousers. “It’s good. A bit under-cooked, though.”

“It’s feta cheese salad.”

* * * *

After lunch, when Meinwen had returned to her pagan emporium–Closed to honor Bacchus: Back at Two–and Harold to his bookshop–We never close for time-travelers: Come back before lunch–Felicia conducted a gallery check. The series of alien landscapes were popular, as far as anything in her gallery was popular with the locals, but she hadn’t sold any despite her policy of easy payment plans. The russet-hued Dragon at Dawn, her personal favorite, had not even received an enquiry.

The watercolors in the third gallery had fared a little better. The modest sums asked for them, all but three of them under two hundred pounds, had generated enough sales for Felicia to subsidize the exhibitions for a further three months on her portion of the price.

Gallery two, where she’d hung four huge oils by the relatively unknown Gillian du Point, was like stepping into silence. The pictures, made with layer upon layer of glazes, seemed to suck the sound from the room. Felicia spent a few minutes looking at them. Even if she could afford the huge price tags, the smallest of the four was larger than any single wall of her flat.

“Quite delightful, aren’t they?”

Felicia jumped at the voice, unaware anyone else had been present. A tall gentleman in a twenties-style double-breasted coat emerged from the shadows. “Yes they are.” She stepped forward. “She’s very talented.”

“They took a long time to make.” He indicated the smaller one with his cane. “Each layer of glaze takes months to dry.”

Felicia nodded. She’d graduated in printmaking before progressing to a master’s in art history and a doctorate in socio-economics. “She has more patience than I do but the results are fantastic.”

“Indeed.” The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I should like them all. When can you deliver them?”

“All?” Felicia gaped at him. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Nevertheless.”

Felicia nodded. “The show finishes next Friday. I can deliver them after that.”

“Excellent.” The man inclined his head and gave her a short bow. “I will return then.” He pressed his card into her hand, nodded once more and placed a trilby on his head as he left the gallery.

“Wow.” Felicia let out a silent whoop then looked down at the card in her hand. There were no contact details. No address, no phone number, no email. Just one name, written in white against a dark background.

Raffles.